Zola 2025-02-12T00:00:00+00:00 https://blog.optional.page/creative/atom.xml 2025-02-12T00:00:00+00:00 2025-02-12T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/like/ <p>I composed a couple of pieces of micro fiction in response to this one by Michael Van Vleet (<a rel="external" href="https://raggedfeathers.com/@signalstation">@signalstation</a>). Since my toots are set to auto-delete I wanted to immortalize them here.</p> <blockquote class="mastodon-embed" data-embed-url="https://raggedfeathers.com/@signalstation/113986465526691639/embed" style="border-radius: 8px; border: 1px solid #C9C4DA; margin: 0; max-width: 540px; min-width: 270px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0;"> <a href="https://raggedfeathers.com/@signalstation/113986465526691639" target="_blank" style="align-items: center; display: flex; flex-direction: column; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Oxygen, Ubuntu, Cantarell, 'Fira Sans', 'Droid Sans', 'Helvetica Neue', Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; justify-content: center; letter-spacing: 0.25px; line-height: 20px; padding: 24px; text-decoration: none;"> <svg xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg" xmlns:xlink="http://www.w3.org/1999/xlink" width="32" height="32" viewBox="0 0 79 75"><path d="M74.7135 16.6043C73.6199 8.54587 66.5351 2.19527 58.1366 0.964691C56.7196 0.756754 51.351 0 38.9148 0H38.822C26.3824 0 23.7135 0.756754 22.2966 0.964691C14.1319 2.16118 6.67571 7.86752 4.86669 16.0214C3.99657 20.0369 3.90371 24.4888 4.06535 28.5726C4.29578 34.4289 4.34049 40.275 4.877 46.1075C5.24791 49.9817 5.89495 53.8251 6.81328 57.6088C8.53288 64.5968 15.4938 70.4122 22.3138 72.7848C29.6155 75.259 37.468 75.6697 44.9919 73.971C45.8196 73.7801 46.6381 73.5586 47.4475 73.3063C49.2737 72.7302 51.4164 72.086 52.9915 70.9542C53.0131 70.9384 53.0308 70.9178 53.0433 70.8942C53.0558 70.8706 53.0628 70.8445 53.0637 70.8179V65.1661C53.0634 65.1412 53.0574 65.1167 53.0462 65.0944C53.035 65.0721 53.0189 65.0525 52.9992 65.0371C52.9794 65.0218 52.9564 65.011 52.9318 65.0056C52.9073 65.0002 52.8819 65.0003 52.8574 65.0059C48.0369 66.1472 43.0971 66.7193 38.141 66.7103C29.6118 66.7103 27.3178 62.6981 26.6609 61.0278C26.1329 59.5842 25.7976 58.0784 25.6636 56.5486C25.6622 56.5229 25.667 56.4973 25.6775 56.4738C25.688 56.4502 25.7039 56.4295 25.724 56.4132C25.7441 56.397 25.7678 56.3856 25.7931 56.3801C25.8185 56.3746 25.8448 56.3751 25.8699 56.3816C30.6101 57.5151 35.4693 58.0873 40.3455 58.086C41.5183 58.086 42.6876 58.086 43.8604 58.0553C48.7647 57.919 53.9339 57.6701 58.7591 56.7361C58.8794 56.7123 58.9998 56.6918 59.103 56.6611C66.7139 55.2124 73.9569 50.665 74.6929 39.1501C74.7204 38.6967 74.7892 34.4016 74.7892 33.9312C74.7926 32.3325 75.3085 22.5901 74.7135 16.6043ZM62.9996 45.3371H54.9966V25.9069C54.9966 21.8163 53.277 19.7302 49.7793 19.7302C45.9343 19.7302 44.0083 22.1981 44.0083 27.0727V37.7082H36.0534V27.0727C36.0534 22.1981 34.124 19.7302 30.279 19.7302C26.8019 19.7302 25.0651 21.8163 25.0617 25.9069V45.3371H17.0656V25.3172C17.0656 21.2266 18.1191 17.9769 20.2262 15.568C22.3998 13.1648 25.2509 11.9308 28.7898 11.9308C32.8859 11.9308 35.9812 13.492 38.0447 16.6111L40.036 19.9245L42.0308 16.6111C44.0943 13.492 47.1896 11.9308 51.2788 11.9308C54.8143 11.9308 57.6654 13.1648 59.8459 15.568C61.9529 17.9746 63.0065 21.2243 63.0065 25.3172L62.9996 45.3371Z" fill="currentColor"/></svg> <div style="color: hsl(var(--clr-fg)); margin-top: 16px;">Post by @signalstation@raggedfeathers.com</div> <div style="font-weight: 500;">View on Mastodon</div> </a> </blockquote> <span id="continue-reading"></span><script data-allowed-prefixes="https://raggedfeathers.com/" async src="https://raggedfeathers.com/embed.js"></script> <!-- I put this after the fold so we don't load the embed on feed views --> <hr /> <p>I have rung the bell.</p> <p>It was only a barren landscape and I that heard it toll. The vast nothingness has already eaten up every last echo. It is my heart that carries the last fading memory of that terrible sound. ding. ding. ding. And though it is fading—it's source, the bell, already eaten away by time—I carry it on. It carries me on. My heart has stopped beating long ago. Instead it is pumping to a memory. ding. ding. My burden.</p> <hr /> <p>When my husband died in childbirth I was inconsolable. He was my everything. I cried my heart out, clutching the child he had left behind. But soon after, this would be a time I would long for.</p> <p>Not three months later the child followed their father to the other side. I was empty and spent. All was grey apathy.</p> <p>Then I visited here, saw you. I felt something. But I couldn't stay. I had to go.</p> <p>And all I could leave you with was my email in your newsletter sign up box.</p> <hr /> <p>In the beginning, we were 13. But fighting at the edges between the above and the great below… it takes its toll. Those less attuned to the Fink fell quickly. But after 5000 cycles even the pristine ones got weak and slipped.<br /> When it was only 3, we split the Beast's Tooth between us, and ran and hid.</p> <p>Yesterday I got word that the other two have been drained.<br /> Now it is only I that remain.<br /> I am the last follower.</p> <hr /> <p>We started out 2000 men strong, with the Gods on our sides and won at Lun. But when we gave chase on the high seas we found our ships slow and sluggish. The Gods had forsaken us and we were sunk one by one.<br /> A group of 17 drifted ashore some island, untouched by man or God. We survived on what nature provided for us. And with time, we built another vessel that could carry us across the waves.<br /> When we found land beneath our feet, we couldn't believe it. We had got in the comments!</p> <hr /> <blockquote class="mastodon-embed" data-embed-url="https://raggedfeathers.com/@signalstation/113987737936462279/embed" style="border-radius: 8px; border: 1px solid #C9C4DA; margin: 0; max-width: 540px; min-width: 270px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0;"> <a href="https://raggedfeathers.com/@signalstation/113987737936462279" target="_blank" style="align-items: center; display: flex; flex-direction: column; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Oxygen, Ubuntu, Cantarell, 'Fira Sans', 'Droid Sans', 'Helvetica Neue', Roboto, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; justify-content: center; letter-spacing: 0.25px; line-height: 20px; padding: 24px; text-decoration: none;"> <svg xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg" xmlns:xlink="http://www.w3.org/1999/xlink" width="32" height="32" viewBox="0 0 79 75"><path d="M74.7135 16.6043C73.6199 8.54587 66.5351 2.19527 58.1366 0.964691C56.7196 0.756754 51.351 0 38.9148 0H38.822C26.3824 0 23.7135 0.756754 22.2966 0.964691C14.1319 2.16118 6.67571 7.86752 4.86669 16.0214C3.99657 20.0369 3.90371 24.4888 4.06535 28.5726C4.29578 34.4289 4.34049 40.275 4.877 46.1075C5.24791 49.9817 5.89495 53.8251 6.81328 57.6088C8.53288 64.5968 15.4938 70.4122 22.3138 72.7848C29.6155 75.259 37.468 75.6697 44.9919 73.971C45.8196 73.7801 46.6381 73.5586 47.4475 73.3063C49.2737 72.7302 51.4164 72.086 52.9915 70.9542C53.0131 70.9384 53.0308 70.9178 53.0433 70.8942C53.0558 70.8706 53.0628 70.8445 53.0637 70.8179V65.1661C53.0634 65.1412 53.0574 65.1167 53.0462 65.0944C53.035 65.0721 53.0189 65.0525 52.9992 65.0371C52.9794 65.0218 52.9564 65.011 52.9318 65.0056C52.9073 65.0002 52.8819 65.0003 52.8574 65.0059C48.0369 66.1472 43.0971 66.7193 38.141 66.7103C29.6118 66.7103 27.3178 62.6981 26.6609 61.0278C26.1329 59.5842 25.7976 58.0784 25.6636 56.5486C25.6622 56.5229 25.667 56.4973 25.6775 56.4738C25.688 56.4502 25.7039 56.4295 25.724 56.4132C25.7441 56.397 25.7678 56.3856 25.7931 56.3801C25.8185 56.3746 25.8448 56.3751 25.8699 56.3816C30.6101 57.5151 35.4693 58.0873 40.3455 58.086C41.5183 58.086 42.6876 58.086 43.8604 58.0553C48.7647 57.919 53.9339 57.6701 58.7591 56.7361C58.8794 56.7123 58.9998 56.6918 59.103 56.6611C66.7139 55.2124 73.9569 50.665 74.6929 39.1501C74.7204 38.6967 74.7892 34.4016 74.7892 33.9312C74.7926 32.3325 75.3085 22.5901 74.7135 16.6043ZM62.9996 45.3371H54.9966V25.9069C54.9966 21.8163 53.277 19.7302 49.7793 19.7302C45.9343 19.7302 44.0083 22.1981 44.0083 27.0727V37.7082H36.0534V27.0727C36.0534 22.1981 34.124 19.7302 30.279 19.7302C26.8019 19.7302 25.0651 21.8163 25.0617 25.9069V45.3371H17.0656V25.3172C17.0656 21.2266 18.1191 17.9769 20.2262 15.568C22.3998 13.1648 25.2509 11.9308 28.7898 11.9308C32.8859 11.9308 35.9812 13.492 38.0447 16.6111L40.036 19.9245L42.0308 16.6111C44.0943 13.492 47.1896 11.9308 51.2788 11.9308C54.8143 11.9308 57.6654 13.1648 59.8459 15.568C61.9529 17.9746 63.0065 21.2243 63.0065 25.3172L62.9996 45.3371Z" fill="currentColor"/></svg> <div style="color: hsl(var(--clr-fg)); margin-top: 16px;">Post by @signalstation@raggedfeathers.com</div> <div style="font-weight: 500;">View on Mastodon</div> </a> </blockquote> <hr /> <p>I did Reply All. I said my piece, putting my future in your hands. Every human, living or dead, those that were, are, and will be—You All!—have received my reply. It is now upon you to judge me. And judge me you must, for we are the One Continuous Consciousness and it is of matter to All. What I have done, can not be undone. Can you forgive me? That is: Can you forgive yourself—that piece of you which is me?</p> <p>&gt; I'll just take whatever pizza's left</p> <p>&gt; oops, sorry 4 the reply all 😅</p> 2024-09-17T00:00:00+00:00 2024-09-17T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/2023/ <p>In November 2023 I wrote one piece of flash fiction (between 350 and 1200 words) each day. For your convenience I have compiled the stories into a free eBook which you can download here as <a rel="external" href="https://my.optional.page/assets/Optional%20Flash%20Fiction%20from%20November%202023.epub">epub</a>.</p> <p>Or you can (still) read them on this blog. Here's a Table of Contents:</p> <ul> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/clara/">01. Clara</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/bean-speech/">02. Bean Speech</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/respite/">03. Respite</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-woodcarvers-daughter/">04. The Woodcarver's Daughter</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-woodcarver/">05. The Woodcarver</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/mike/">06. Mike</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/tea-party/">07. Tea Party</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-buddy-programme/">08. The Buddy Programme</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-dead-lord/">09. The Dead Lord</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/hello-spring/">10. Hello Spring</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-abandoned-house/">11. The Abandoned House</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/a-metamorphosis/">12. A Metamorphosis</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/a-dance-with-the-prince/">13. A Dance With The Prince</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/egg/">14. Egg</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-talent-show/">15. The Talent Show</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/sweet-like-honey/">16. Sweet Like Honey</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/at-the-cafe/">17. At The Café</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-cracked-egg/">18. The Cracked Egg</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/fenco/">19. Fenco</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/martha/">20. Martha</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-long-way-home/">21. The Long Way Home</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/fathers-workshop/">22. Father's Workshop</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/escaping-crete/">23. Escaping Crete</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/quartz-first-theory/">24. Quartz' First Theory</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/a-night-in-vegas/">25. A Night In Vegas</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/no-loose-ends/">26. No Loose Ends</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/theme-park/">27. Theme Park</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/rainy-days/">28. Rainy Days</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/carry-on/">29. Carry On</a></li> <li><a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/escaping-neo-crete/">30. Escaping Neo-Crete</a></li> </ul> 2023-11-30T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-30T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/escaping-neo-crete/ <p>The whining sound of drills being used on the reinforced door cut through the air. Ike turned it down in the interface of his ear implant. His dad was uploading some mod files to the fabricator which immediately sprung to life and began shaping matter. "Pa, I don't know if we can wait for this fab. The president of Neo-Crete has hired some security personnel from Fenco. They know their stuff."</p> <p>"Relax," said Dale seeming either unaware or uncaring of the danger the two were in. Just then the fabricator's completion chime sounded and the cover lifted. It had created a small ring with a gem that shimmered amber red. "Is that a squart gem?"</p> <p>"98% purity," Dale confirmed, "I had a courier deliver it earlier today." He put on the ring and tapped it with his index finger. Then he presented it to his son. "It needs your DNA." Ike tapped it. "Hold onto your mind!" Dale shouted as he turned the ring around his finger.</p> <p>Everything around Ike begins to strobe. Black. White. Black. White. Then it suddenly stops. The world around him still is spinning and he collapses onto all fours and vomits up the sandwiches from earlier. That seemed to help as he now was starting to register the new surroundings. They weren't in his father's lab anymore. He felt a soft ground beneath his hands and knees. They were. . . in some kind of wood?</p> <p>"What. . .?" Ike was confused. Dale was walking around a bit. "I've transferred us to another dimension," he explained, "we should be safe here. At least from the people from our dimension. I'm not sure what dimension this is, exactly. Oh there's a little bunny with a knapsack. Maybe it can give some information."</p> <p>Ike watched Dale excitedly jump over some tree stumps and go over to the bunny rabbit. He wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand and tried getting up. The nausea had faded and once he was back on his feet he walked over to his dad. The bunny was already on its way.</p> <p>"What did it say?"</p> <p>"<em>It</em> is a <em>she</em>," Dale explained, "She said she's called Tabby Longfoot and is exploring this part of the woods herself. She said she saw a hut in that direction with a bear and a pig inside and she said they were doing unspeakable things. And over that way are three women at a tea party that are not saying a word. That all sounds pretty wild to me, want to check out another dimension?" But before Ike could say anything Dale had already turned his ring again.</p> <p>Reality faded, but quickly rebuild itself around them in some new configuration. This time the nausea wasn't so bad as to make Ike throw up again. But it seemed to not go away. The floor underneath his feet seemed to slowly sway side to side. He looked around. It was dark, but the ground <em>was</em> swaying. Ike lifted his audio filters. He heard waves crashing. Were they on a ship?</p> <p>Suddenly, a door opened. The woman in the doorframe dropped a basket of gingerbread cookies and gave a short shriek of surprise, which in turn made Dale and Ike jump as well. "Oh, we've got some stowaways, huh?" she said. Then she turned her head and shouted, "Captain Harriet, first mate Martha, we got some stowaways here!"</p> <p>"You've got it all wrong," Dale wanted to explain, but was met with a kick to the temple. "Oh, believe me, I've heard it all. And I didn't run away from my carnivorous raptor of a husband to have someone talk back at me." She turned to Ike. "What about you? You got something to say?"</p> <p>"I'm good," Ike said. "Good. Wait here," the woman said and slammed the door. Ike quickly moved over to his father. He grabbed his father's hand and turned the ring. Reality rebuilt itself around them in the shape of a space ship. A female commander was standing in front of Ike. She held an egg in her hand.</p> <p>"Oh, I. . . I was expecting you. Here's the egg you ordered," and she hesitantly extended her arm towards Ike. "I. . . what? I didn't order an egg."</p> <p>"Really?" the commander asked with some confusion in her voice. "Aren't you <em>adele_suprFAN78</em> on Tradr?" Ike bent down to Dale who was slowly coming to. "18k and you can have it. Hey are you listening? It's a good egg." Ike turned the ring once more.</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-escaping-neo-crete-2023-11-30">On "Escaping Neo-Crete" | 2023-11-30</h2> <p>To celebrate a whole month(!) of stories I wanted to write something fun. I don't think it's as good as many other stories, but more than all of them this one was for me. I wanted to cram in as many references as possible into it. I managed a whole lot.</p> <p>And with that the month is over. Thirty stories in thirty days. This project was a huge success in my book.</p> <p>First of all, the mere fact that I stuck with it. It was a huge help that I was able to send my daily stories to friends and immediately get some feedback. Second, I have managed to explore so many styles and genres and brought ideas to the page I'd long been carrying with me, but also came up with a lot of new ideas. Apart from being proud of completing the project I'm also really happy with at least half of the stories contained within.</p> <p>But it wasn't all roses. This project also made November stressful for me. I spent a lot of time thinking about the stories I had written and those I still had to write. This has given me much more of a respect for authors, and especially those participating in a proper NaNoWriMo, where the goal is to write 50 thousand words in a month. That's more than double what I managed, even when taking all these journal entries into account!</p> <p>Overall the good definitely outweighs the good by a large margin. In future I want to try my hand at writing again. Because this time was just about putting (virtual) pen to (virtual) paper I have done next to no editing of my pieces. That would be something to explore in a next project. Another thing to try would be to write a longer piece.</p> <p>I found this project incredibly inspiring, enlightening and motivating and I hope that any reader has found something similar.</p> 2023-11-29T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-29T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/carry-on/ <p>Carry-Anne made her way up the ladder that her implant had highlighted in blue. Her right arm and leg still hurt from an accident earlier today causing her to climb a bit slower than she was usually able to. The timer at the edge of her field of vision didn't care. It still counted with the same relentlessness it always did. When she reached the top of the ladder she had to climb the stairs of the fire escape. She started out with a bit of limp not to burden her right leg too much. It was costing her too much time. She grit her teeth and started sprinting up the stairs. The cold air filled her lungs and began to sting. At least this took some attention away from the pain she felt in her right leg.</p> <p>When she reached the rooftop she followed the blue navigational hints across and over a fence. She slid down a slight incline onto some lower roofs. The counter did not permit her to catch her breath. She sprinted some more. She recognized this route. A wall run would be coming up just ahead. She thought of the grappling hook in her backpack. Beginners used this to help with wall runs. It takes a lot of pressure of the ankles as you don't need such a close angle. Carry-Anne glanced over at the timer. She was already getting late, she really did not have time to pull out her grappling hook. Instead she pulled off her left glove and placed it between her teeth. When she took the ramp and jumped at the wall she bit down on it hard. Her brain entered slow motion. Her left foot made first contact with the wall. This gap needed five steps, though pros could do it with four. She did the next step and the nerves of her right ankle told her nervous system that this had been a terrible idea. A terrible pain flooded her body. Tears shot into her eyes. She bit down even harder onto the glove. Her right hand felt the wall. Her left foot made contact again and preserved her momentum in defiance of gravity. <em>Think of flying. Think of being anywhere else.</em> Another step with the right foot brought her back to the here and now. Brought her back to a world of pain. The foot slipped a bit. <em>That's not good</em>, she thought. The next step with the left foot did some to make up for it, but she landed on the other side without any momentum. The wall run had in total been just above a second, but the real cost was the momentum she had lost. She started sprinting again, ignoring everything her right foot was trying to tell her. <em>I've got to make this in time.</em> She took the glove back out of her mouth and put it back on.</p> <p>Finally she saw the door up ahead pulsing in blue. One of these lonely doors that you find on rooftops. <em>Dests.</em> That's what couriers call them, short for destination. Usually couriers leave them open for each other so that they can throw themselves against the doors and don't have to stop to deal with handles. <em>Usually</em>, Carry-Anne thought grabbing her right shoulder. But looking at the time she couldn't be safe now either. She did a small prayer and threw her left shoulder against the door. Luckily it flew open and she tumbled down the short flight of stairs. She got up. 7.3 seconds to spare. She knocked at the blue apartment door and slid off the backpack. She knocked again and pulled out the small yellow package. <em>Come on, come on</em>. She heard movement inside. 2.5s. . . 1.2s. . . She heard the lock turn, and pushed open the door with the package. She dropped it into the expecting hand. The door shut again and she collapsed against the wall slowly sliding down to the floor. She peaked over at the timer. -0.3s. The notification below informed her of what she already knew: Target not met, bounty reduced by 80%. <em>Fuck!</em> she exclaimed and hit the floor with a closed fist. <em>Fuck, fuck, fuck!</em></p> <p>She took two deep breaths, trying to calm herself. Then she got back up and limped up the stairs back onto the roof where she opened the courier app. There was another blitz job just around here. When she took it the timer reset to 2 minutes and a blue line appeared in front of her. She started jogging.</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-carry-on-2023-11-29">On "Carry On" | 2023-11-29</h2> <p>It's not that the writing itself has gotten more difficult over time. It's just the finding the initial idea. And that has nothing to do with how much I'll end up writing. Ideas that take a while to land on can lead to longer or shorter pieces, just like ideas that instantly come to me can inspire more or less words.</p> <p>This idea is obviously inspired by the Cyberpunk genre, but also the video games <em>Mirror's Edge</em> and a bit of <em>Death Stranding</em>. As it turned out it's also very reminiscent of the excellent film <em>Sorry We Missed You</em>. What really touched me in that film (and what I tried to replicate here) is how much of a trap the gig economy is. Carry-Anne is free to take any job she wants, but she isn't free to take no job. Her body is telling her to stop, but she can't. And the terrible thing is that it looks like she herself is making the choice to <em>carry on</em> (Yes, her name's a pun).</p> 2023-11-28T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-28T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/rainy-days/ <p>Zeela went into the sim-chamber and slammed the door behind her. Then she turned on a rain simulation. Virtual drops of water fell from the ceiling. The wall panels disguised themselves as a vast landscape veiled in darkness by the thick clouds overhead. The occasional lightning strike lit up the fields and surrounding trees. Zeela turned down her suit's temperature to realistic levels. She did not like that the preset kept the feeling of room temperature consistent. Being in the rain should feel cold. At least that's what she thought. She lay down in the mud and stared at the clouds.</p> <p>"She'll cool off soon enough," said Lani and started collecting the tools from the floor that Zeela had thrown about, "Let's just take out the squart ourselves. You still support me in that decision, right?" He didn't wait for Chip's response and started loosening the bolts that held the squart in place.</p> <p>After a while Chip calmed down a bit and tried to say something in between sniffles. "What's that Chip? You got to speak up," yelled Lani who by now had climbed up on the big pipe to reach the bolts on top of the squart.</p> <p>"I said," repeated Chip a bit louder now, "that maybe we shouldn't sell the squart if Zeela is so against it. What if she's right and it <em>can</em> be used as a weapon?"</p> <p>"Oh, come on Chip! Don't take her side now." Lani jumped down onto the grating. "Anything can be used as a weapon nowadays. You can hit someone over the head with this wrench or fly this whole ship into a station." Lani put a hand onto Chip's shoulder. "We could really use the extra cash."</p> <p>Zeela awoke with a cold. She was angry with herself for having fallen asleep in the sim-chamber again. She tuned off the rain and switched to a bathhouse where she rinsed her suit of the virtual mud that now stuck to her back. Then she made her way over to the medbay to get rid of the cold. She immediately felt better when the machine had given her the shot, but then a warning popped up on the holo-screen that the med-resources were running low. That would cost quite a bit to refill. Maybe Lani and Chip were right to sell the squart.</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-rainy-days-2023-11-28">On "Rainy Days" | 2023-11-28</h2> <p>I wanted to revisit the sci-fi genre, because the first time around I had only had one character. I envisioned a whole crew, but it turned out a lot smaller again. It feels a bit cheap to throw around made up words like sim-chamber, squart and holo-screen, but I guess that's one way writers approach this genre?</p> <p>I did write this story under a bit of time pressure, but I feel like it turned out quite dense. It's more open ended than others, but I feel like this works better than some of the "punchline endings" of other stories.</p> <p>The other inspiration was just the word "rain" which made its way into the title in the end. (I title my stories after writing them.) I think that even though the setting is sci-fi this is more of a melancholy slice-of-life piece. That seems to be one of the themes with my writing this month.</p> 2023-11-27T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-27T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/theme-park/ <p>The kids on the backseat were getting loud again. "Honey, can you <em>please</em> do something to keep them occupied?" As if she hadn't thought of that herself. Their high pitched screaming and arguing was causing her a headache.</p> <p>She raised her voice, "Okay you two. Let's play a game."</p> <p>"What kind of game?" asked the big one.</p> <p>"Wha ka of gam?" parroted the little one.</p> <p>"Let's play the silent game. Whoever can keep quiet the longest wins."</p> <p>"That's not a real game!" protested the big one.</p> <p>The little one agreed, "no real gam!" and started kicking the back of her seat.</p> <p>She became agitated. "Cut that out, no kicking!"</p> <p>The little one did not stop. Instead the big one joined in, kicking the back of the driver's seat. They both started giggling.</p> <p>"Listen to your mother! I'm driving! This is dangerous!"</p> <p>The kicking continued.</p> <p>"Do I have to drive on the side of the road and stop?"</p> <p>An empty threat as they were in the middle of a freeway. He couldn't do anything. She couldn't either. She felt ill. She had never really done well in cars, but being in here for coming up to four hours now with these two devils in the back was too much.</p> <p>"Please, you two. Let's play <em>I spy...</em>"</p> <p>The kicking stopped.</p> <p>"I go first," said the big one, "I spy with my little eye. . ."</p> <p>He drew out the last vowel while looking around the car until he landed on something, "something green."</p> <p>"Fortnite!" screamed the little one.</p> <p>"It's not Fortnite."</p> <p>"Fortnite!" the little one insisted.</p> <p>"IT'S NOT FORTNITE!" the big one screamed.</p> <p>"Ouch!" the little one let out and began crying.</p> <p>She turned around and saw the big one hitting the little one with a Hulk action figure. She reached back, trying to take it from him, but it wasn't easy as he was flailing his arms in his rage. As she gripped him she could feel the sandwiches from earlier sliding back up her throat as she threw up.</p> <p>"Ew, mama did frop-frop" said the little one between sniffles.</p> <p>"Honey, this is a rental! Why didn't you say something?"</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h1 id="on-theme-park-2023-11-27">On "Theme Park" | 2023-11-27</h1> <p>The only thing worse than a bus ride is a car ride with the family. I've been all four of these characters and none of them are enjoying this. And it's not that these characters are all horrible, it's the car ride that's bringing it out in them.</p> <p>An unofficial challenge I've set myself is that I don't want to recycle names in my stories. I haven't checked, but I'm quite sure that every character has a unique name. In this story I sidestepped this challenge by not giving the characters any names, which led to a different challenge. It felt weird to refer to the driver as "the driver" so they don't get a big presence. I also had to explicitly gender "the big one" as I had to refer to him a lot. I would've liked to keep them all a bit more ambiguous as they are supposed to be canvases to project your own road trip family onto.</p> <p>Yes, the green thing the big one had spied was his Hulk action figure. He's not very creative.</p> 2023-11-26T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-26T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/no-loose-ends/ <p>Two months ago I died. I had been shot by a security guard when I had tried to steal $2.3 million out of a bank in southern Italy. But my unfinished business had left me a ghost. And I cannot rest until I heist those millions. I'd spent the past two months assembling the perfect team of ghosts for the second run.</p> <p>Ronny got us into the building. He had died when a mine collapsed and his unfinished business was to complete a tunnel. When he had dug a way into the bank's basement he vanished, his soul finally at peace. Next up was our hacker Nelly. She had lived in an old home and when she spotted a faulty wire she had gone into the basement with the intention to turn off the building's electricity. But on the stairs she had slipped and split her head. So when she had hacked and disabled all the electronics of the building her business had been finished as well. She vanished and we were down to two on the inside, plus the getaway driver.</p> <p>Now it was Glasses' turn. He had been killed in chemistry class. Fellow students had messed up an experiment and produced an uncontrolled explosion. He never got to complete his own <em>controlled</em> explosion—until now. When the dust had settled the part of the wall of the safe was gone, and so was Glasses. I filled my duffle bags with all the money and made my way back outside where Vincent was waiting.</p> <p>"Where's the car, Vincent?!"</p> <p>But Vincent started laughing maniacally. I heard the sirens of ghost police cars wailing in the distance. "Vincent, where's the car?"</p> <p>"I'm not a bus driver that died in a traffic accident. My unfinished business isn't to drive to a school. I'm actually an author. When my wife Delores tried to kill me we got into a struggle and we both fell out a third story window. I never got to introduce a twist to the heist story I was writing. But now I finally could complete this very specific unfinished business of mine! Suck it!" He raised his middle fingers in the air and poofed out of existence.</p> <p>Now I'm standing here. Completely alone, slowly being surrounded by ghost police. Is this the end? Why can't they let me complete my heist? I just want peace.</p> <p>"Hands up in the air. We got you surrounded."</p> <p>As soon as these words have been uttered all but one of the police ghosts disappear. Only the chief remains.</p> <p>"I guess their unfinished business was just to catch and surround a criminal, but not me, pal."</p> <p>He trains his revolver on me. I drop my duffle bags and raise my hands in surrender.</p> <p>"I'm sorry, pal. But my unfinished business is to wipe out a criminal. Say your pra—" <em>Blam</em>!</p> <p>A shot rings through the air. I shrink together in shock. I take a breath. I check myself. Nope, still alive. Or dead rather. But only once.</p> <p>Then the police chief collapses and a female ghost steps out of the shadows behind him, blowing the smoke off the barrel of her gun.</p> <p>"You're welcome. I'm Dolores, still needed to kill someone."</p> <p>"Thanks," I mutter, but she's gone already. When the corpse of the police chief disappears as well I am confused for a moment. Did that count as "wiping out a criminal?" Really? Post-posthumously being the cause for setting free the spirit of a criminal was enough for him? Well, I'll take it.</p> <p>I pick up my duffle bags of money and make my way down the street. As I feel my soul untether from the earth I smile to myself. The perfect heist. No loose ends.</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-no-loose-ends-2023-11-26">On "No Loose Ends" | 2023-11-26</h2> <p>Again, this was a mashup of two ideas from my list: "Heist" and "Ghost Story". I'm surprised how fun this idea turned out. It's a bit easy to introduce and "solve" characters one after the other. I think it would be cool to have a longer story where all characters are set up in the beginning and we follow them through the execution of a more complex plan.</p> <p>Once I had the rules of every ghost having a cause of death, an expertise, and some unfinished business it was quite easy to go step-by-step through the heist. And of course every good heist needs a twist threatening to jeopardize the plan. The most difficult part was finding a way to resolve the twist. The easiest thing would have been for Vincent's disappearance to solve the problem he'd introduced, but that felt too cheap. That's why Dolores is there.</p> <p>I thought it would be fun for all the ghosts to be gone at the end. That's why the police chief also finds peace even after his second death. I'm not sure how elegant it is, but I guess it works.</p> 2023-11-25T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-25T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/a-night-in-vegas/ <p>I don't believe in God anymore. In the sense that She's not gonna do anything for us. I do believe in Her existence. I met her once, down on Fremont Street in Las Vegas, where She was doing card tricks.</p> <p>I had spent a week in Las Vegas on vacation. I had set aside some money to blow on casinos and as it was the last night I had gone big at the roulette table where it only took 40 minutes to get rid of it all. Not wanting to get to bed early on my last night I wandered around and enjoyed the night that was still young.</p> <p>I was pulled along by all the giant LED screens, the music and the crowds moving through. Above, people were flying down the street mounted on a zipline. I stopped at a stage to watch a band play for a while and then moved on to see what else this street had to offer.</p> <p>Then I saw Her. I have never been that religious. I have been to a church a couple of times. But when I saw Her I knew it was God. I was completely enthralled. I approached. She offered some guy a deck of cards.</p> <p>"Would you shuffle this deck for Me?"</p> <p>God was a woman of small stature with warm brown skin. Her hair was done up in two buns. She was wearing a black slash midi dress and black heels. She had a small tan suitcase next to Her and a speaker hooked up to the microphone She was wearing.</p> <p>She finished some trick or other and the bystanders had applauded and put a couple bills in a hat She'd passed around. The crowd dispersed and Her attention fell on me.</p> <p>"Can I interest you in a card trick?"</p> <p>"You're God."</p> <p>"That I am. So how about it? Pick a card. Any card.."</p> <p>"What are— How are You in— Why are You here?"</p> <p>I couldn't find the right question, but this seemed like as good a start as any.</p> <p>"I'm doing card tricks, and where else to do them but here? Las Vegas, baby!"</p> <p>"But... You're GOD!?" I blurted out. Then I added "Why are You doing card tricks in Las Vegas?"</p> <p>"I'm just chilling! Enjoying life! Who are you to judge? You blew $13k in six nights! Come on, pick a card."</p> <p>"But how can You be 'chilling' when the world is so fucked?! Oh sorry, can I swear in front of You?"</p> <p>"It's fine," God laughed, "I've heard worse. Look, just take a card and <em>all will be revealed</em>." She winked at me.</p> <p>I was getting a bit annoyed, but maybe this was one of these 'tests of faith' that you hear so much about. So I took a breath, trying to calm myself and picked a card from somewhere in the middle. It was the nine of hearts.</p> <p>"Hold onto that card. Sign it, but don't show Me."</p> <p>"Aren't You omniscient?"</p> <p>She started shuffling the rest of the deck while I scribbled my name.</p> <p>"Oh, come on. Let's pretend. Replace the card."</p> <p>She fanned the deck and I put the card back.</p> <p>"Look, it would be easy for Me to do the trick, so how about you shuffle the deck?"</p> <p>She handed me the deck and I began shuffling.</p> <p>"When I gave you humans free will I also gave up control over what you'll do. Flip over the deck and look at the cards."</p> <p>I did as God told me.</p> <p>"It's pure chaos," She continued, "I couldn't control the path you humans would take. Just like I can't control the order that you shuffle these cards in. Turn them over again and continue shuffling."</p> <p>I again followed Her instruction.</p> <p>"What I know is that it will all turn out well in the end. What was your card?"</p> <p>"Nine of hearts."</p> <p>"When you're done flip over the deck."</p> <p>I flipped over the deck and found it to be in complete order: seven, eight, nine and the rest of diamonds, followed by hearts, clubs and spades. But one card was missing.</p> <p>"Looking for this?" She handed me a card face down.</p> <p>"I know that there's lots of stuff that's going completely wrong in the world. I didn't mean for that all to happen, but I can assure you that it will all turn out fine in the end. And in the meantime we can only do the best of it."</p> <p>My head was racing with all the things wrong with this stupid explanation, but then in a blink She was gone. No trace of Her or Her suitcase.</p> <p>I was confused. Had I been hallucinating? Stranger things happened in Vegas. But then I felt the card in my hand. I flipped it over. It was the nine of hearts, with my signature. But next to it there now was some text in elegant calligraphy: "I met God and all I got was this lousy playing card."</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-a-night-in-vegas-2023-11-25">On "A Night In Vegas" | 2023-11-25</h2> <p>The first paragraph suddenly came to me and I was completely taken with the idea. It was very difficult to find an ending for it though. Though I'm not religious, the <a rel="external" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Problem_of_evil">Epicurean Paradox</a> has been in the back of my mind for a long time (How can there be Evil if God is omniscient, omnipotent, and Good). I think it's an interesting problem and I especially like the explanation of an Oblivious God that has forgotten Their power and Godhood, but still carries them inside Themselves. Westworld season three had an excellent subplot in that vain. That was also my original idea for God to live it up in Vegas and the protagonist trying to get God to get Their shit together. But because I didn't have an actual plan I let my writing take me where it went. God pretty quickly revealed Herself (or acknowledged Her identity) and my original idea went out the window. Then I tried to force some metaphor between God's plan and Her card tricks. I don't think I really succeeded, especially with Her just vanishing at the end and leaving a dumb punchline on the card. But maybe She wasn't God, but just some con artist prick. I've done card tricks myself so that was easy enough to imagine, but I've never been to Vegas. Everything I know about Fermont Street I learned from <a rel="external" href="https://youtu.be/Z6HAEzcoWfw">this video</a> which I skimmed for this story today.</p> 2023-11-24T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-24T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/quartz-first-theory/ <p>Quartz Rockpolish was excited to see that he had received so many responses to the letters he had sent out. The middle-aged dwarf had used his free time to write up a "Theory Of The Effects Of Pressures Imposed By Societies Upon The Mind Of The Individuals Living Within Them: An Exploration Of Elven, Dwarven, And Orcish Stereotypes Through The Lens Of Environment, Upbringing, And Culture."</p> <p>Quartz had, like most dwarfs, grown up in a mine. Here he had learned about mining, the different tools, the logistics of transport, the worth of minerals, how to find vines of gems, how to avoid cave ins, in short how to be a good dwarf.</p> <p>But, he had never really found joy in it. He had done the work, he had sung the songs, he had even had some great finds, but in the end it didn't really make him happy. When he had brought it up to his parents they had laughed at him, told him that he would learn to love it eventually, and had forbidden him from bringing the topic up again.</p> <p>Quartz had listened, he had swallowed down the feelings of unhappiness and tried to find joy and meaning in his work. Years passed, but the feelings just intensified until they one day overwhelmed him. He lost control and bashed in seven supporting pillars causing the vein to collapse. 27 dwarves were trapped and he was taken to the infirmary under suspicion of cave fever.</p> <p>After a week off work Quartz felt an inner peace that he had never felt before. The news that the 27 colleagues had all been saved was a huge weight off his shoulder, but more importantly not having to journey so deep into the earth was freeing. He started making friends with the other people stationed at the infirmary. Many just had minor mining injuries and left the infirmary again quickly, but he found a good friend in Opal. They bonded over their shared appreciation of the different life at the infirmary and soon Quartz felt he could trust her enough to tell her about his feelings towards mining and his dreams of doing something else with his life.</p> <p>"Duh," Opal responded and laughed, "welcome to my life!"</p> <p>"What do you mean?"</p> <p>"Do you think that you're the only dwarf that hates mining and wants to do something else? Dwarves leave all the time. They want to build boats or write poetry or become bakers. I want to become a hunter."</p> <p>Quartz's reality was dissolving around him.</p> <p>"What do you mean 'dwarves leave all the time'. And why do you want to be a hunter? Isn't that what the narcissistic elves do?"</p> <p>Opal laughed again, shaking her head.</p> <p>"Do you really think that living, thinking creatures like us dwarves—creatures able to make free choices no less—that we would all be the same? That we would all love the same thing, digging down into the earth? And don't talk like that about the elves! They are the same as us. They might look and live differently, but they are just as different amongst their kind as we are amongst ours."</p> <p>"But what about our build?"</p> <p>"What about it?"</p> <p>"Well, we have this short stature and strong arms. Our bodies are practically built to mine the earth."</p> <p>"And the child born with one eye? Is it 'built' to use the telescope? Does the boy born with strong legs find joy in jumping? They might or they might not."</p> <p>"But why do we do it then?"</p> <p>"Maybe it's tradition? I haven't thought about that part much."</p> <p>That day Quartz had decided to leave the mine and to explore this topic further. Three days later when he came to Opal to say his goodbyes she had instead joined him. They had found a spot near a river where they had built a small hut for themselves. It was a difficult start, learning how to survive alone, but Opal soon got a grip on hunting and Quartz managed things around the house.</p> <p>When the day-to-day got easier he found some time to return to his idea of exploring why the dwarfs did what they did. He started writing down his theories and ideas. Then he would read them to Opal who would give feedback and he'd go on revising them.</p> <p>When his theories finally took a more coherent form another suspicion also rose back up from the back of his mind: These ideas seemed to apply not only to the way the dwarves were living but also to the lives of the orcs and elves.</p> <p>Quartz took another two months to expand on these areas and generalize his theory. He then wrote a neat ten-page article and sent it out to some elven colleges and orc camps, offering to come and give lectures laying out his theories in full. He did not send letters to any dwarven mines. He still remembered how sternly his parents had told him not to rock the boat and after years above ground he wasn't very fond of returning down into a mine, even if just for a lecture.</p> <p>And now he was holding all these responses in his hands! It must be fifteen letters from elves and even one from an orc tribe! He opened the first one. It was from Aspen College, a medium-sized elven institution.</p> <blockquote> <p>Dear Mr. Rockpolish,<br /> <br> we're sorry to inform you that we do not admit non-elven lecturers on our campus.<br /> We nevertheless wish you good luck in your further endeavours.<br /> <br> Kind regards<br /> Zaranina Carving<br /> Director of Aspen College</p> </blockquote> <p>Quartz' excitement took a hit. He hastily opened the letter of another elven college and found a similar rejection. He tore open the rest of them and found more of the same racist attitude.</p> <p>Hesitantly he moved on to the only letter he'd received from an orc tribe. The return address simply read "The Bloodsplitters".</p> <blockquote> <p>Quartz!<br /> <br> You use big words in this "theory" of yours. They do not hide your shoddy work. You talk of "initiation rituals." You talk of "fear-based social control". You talk of "socially constructed images of a proto-orc."<br /> You talk of all this and more, but you do not give examples. And for anyone even remotely familiar with orc culture it would be easy to cite any number of rituals like "The Night of the Hunt", "The Dragon Ride", or "The Bloodbath."<br /> Then again, you could not have supported your holistic theory if you had even the least bit of familiarity with orcish "Environment, Upbringing, And Culture" as you put it in the title of your work.<br /> <br> We are uninterested in you presenting your full theory as you laid it out now. We do see promise in you and your work though. That is why we want to invite you to immerse yourself in our culture, to live with our clan and to continue your work proper.<br /> <br> Gore and glory!<br /> Headsmash Bloodsplitter</p> </blockquote> <p>Quartz sat in stunned silence and went over the letter twice more.</p> <p>"Whatcha readin'?" Opal had come back from her hunt and put down two rabbits on the table and began skinning them.</p> <p>Quartz' mind took a moment to come back to return from the letter to the here and now.</p> <p>"I think I want to live with the Bloodsplitters?"</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-quartz-first-theory-2023-11-24">On "Quartz' First Theory" | 2023-11-24</h2> <p>Another cheat day where the story is a day late.</p> <p>(High) Fantasy was the biggest gap in this month's collection, but I'm very sceptical of the genre's tropes (as should have become obvious in the story). Much of it is based on speciesist metaphors for racist assumptions. I'm not condemning anyone reading or even writing such stories, but I simply can't enjoy them.</p> <p>I know that the TTRPG space is addressing these problems. Of course, player groups have always done what they felt right, but even publishers and designers are doing away with "race bonuses" or "species constraints" in their games. I don't read any high fantasy to know whether similar changes are taking place there.</p> <p>That all is to say that I could only write a high fantasy short story if I could simultaneously critique it. In the end I think that the overall story suffers less from that than I originally assumed.</p> <p>My original idea just had the bracketing narrative of the theory and the rejection letters and I was surprised to find how much I had to say for the whole part in between. Also, the orcs were supposed to give a similar rejection to the elves, being stereotypically uninterested in science.</p> <p>But I did want someone inside the story to point out how Quartz was just sitting at home describing cultures he'd never seen. Giving that part to the elves felt undeserved as it would have muddled the racism with intellectual honesty and the stereotype of elves really needs to be taken down a peg.</p> <p>If it had been Opal to point it out to him at the end it would have elevated the two even more: Just two dwarves smarter than everyone else. Rational thinking and intellectualizing can get you only so far. It's fair if they want to be alone in their hut, but if they want to contribute to science and culture they have to live in it. That's also why there's no cultural shift at the end, no happy ending where all species come together. Change at such a scale requires time and the work of hundreds of people.</p> <p>And because the elves and Opal were out, I chose the orcs to criticise Quartz. I still wanted the orcs at least in part to fit the stereotype of being violent, impulsive, and dirty, which makes their letter read a bit like a parody (and it is funny for "Headsmash Bloodsplitter" to critique Quartz' scientific methods!)</p> <p>But in my head canon some of the tribes also recognize the problem with that and work towards accommodating other lifestyles within their tribe.</p> <p>Opal becoming a hunter is ironic, I know. Baby steps.</p> <p>Lastly, the title might imply a "second theory" which might be a second story? Probably not, but there's still a couple stories left this month.</p> 2023-11-23T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-23T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/escaping-crete/ <p>"Icarus, we have to leave Crete," Daedalus sighed looking at his boy, "We have to leave now."</p> <p>"But what about my friends? What about your job with the king? When will we come back?"</p> <p>"Now." Daedalus insisted. He didn't want to tell his son what danger they were in. That this wasn't a joy ride. That this was an escape from certain death. Icarus got most of that anyway just from observing his father's expression. There was a mix of sadness and anger, with a dash of fear sprinkled in.</p> <p>Icarus stopped protesting and let his father attach the wings to him. Leather straps fixated the apparatus to his back, and his elbows. His father instructed him to place his hands through some loops and grasp them tight.</p> <p>Icarus was amazed at the lightness of the whole material. It didn't amount to more than the weight of wearing a silk robe. He moved his arms and felt the power. Just this light flapping had almost lifted him off the ground.</p> <p>"Icarus!" his father reprimanded him. He himself was fastening his own wings on his back.</p> <p>Icarus jumped up into the air and assisted himself with a flap. He shot up two meters into the air and slowly glided back down.</p> <p>"Icarus, please," his father placed a hand on his shoulder. He wasn't angry with him. There was pain in his eyes. As if he knew something terrible was about to happen.</p> <p>"I see you got the hang of these already. But don't get cocky now. We'll fly over the ocean to the mainland. If you fly too high the sun will melt the wax, the feathers will come lose and you will fall. If you fly too low water from the ocean will cling to the feathers and wear them down. You'll follow me exactly and we'll make it over the sea."</p> <p>"Not too high, not too low. Follow you to the mainland," Icarus summarized.</p> <p>Daedalus gave a nod with a smile, but there were tears in his eyes. Then he turned, took a running start and flung himself up into the air. The sudden speed of his old man had surprised Icarus, but he also took a running start and threw himself off the small rockface and dove straight down with his wings folded in. When he had built enough speed he opened his wings and made a hard turn upwards, catapulting himself dozens of meters high to find his place behind his father.</p> <p>He was gliding on the warm air enjoying a freedom he had never felt before. But the flying, the wings, it all felt so intuitive. Not like something new he had gained, but something lost that he had regained. Just like when he was seven years old and his father had crafted him his first set of spectacles. When he could for the first time see the individual leaves of the olive trees and the bugs scuttling about between the rocks.</p> <p>And now he could finally fly through the like he was always meant to, like his heart had always already done. An immense feeling of joy washed over Icarus. He needed to push the boundaries. He looked up and he saw that the orange clouds were hanging low. He folded his wings again and started another vertical descend to catapult himself up. He quickly gained so much speed that the wind was thrashing so aggressively about him that he had to close his eyes even with his spectacles. He counted in his head, three, four, five! and exploded his wings outward. The upwards turn was so extreme that a strong force was pulling upon his whole body. A tingling sensation went through his body.</p> <p>His momentum had been transformed and Icarus was now shooting straight into the sky. He flapped his arms and accelerated even more. He looked straight up at the clouds that were coming closer at an incredible speed. His eyes hurt from the wind, but he needed to witness this.</p> <p>His climb started to slow, but he knew that it would be enough to breach the clouds. As he braced for impact, but passing through the cloud was just like passing through a veil.</p> <p>And then he was on the other side.</p> <p>He had reached his apex and hung in the air. And though it was but a moment it felt like a lifetime. The clouds below reflected the golden sunlight and expanded endlessly in all directions. Turning his body upwards he saw the sun so bright and glorious like never before. He reached out a hand and felt like he could almost hold onto Apollo's carriage hurdling through the sky. All about him feathers hung in the air like little angels celebrating this triumph with him.</p> <p>In passing through the clouds Icarus had transcended into a realm of the gods. A transient space placed there for the gods to behold and admire. A place no mortal was meant to witness for the pure gold and white shine of it was like a kingdom that no king would ever be worthy of, the air he was breathing tasted like Gaia's tranquil breath of life, the warmth of the sun wrapped around him like the arms of a nurturing mother.</p> <br> Icarus was overcome with feelings of awe and pure bliss. <br> <br> He started to sink back down again. He was accelerating quickly and soon was barrelling down at incredible speeds. He agitated his arms, but he had lost most feathers and was not gaining grip on the air. Instead, he started spinning uncontrollably. He had already broken through the clouds again. Sometimes he would see the ocean, Crete, the clouds. The world was spinning fast around him and he couldn't fixate on any point. <p>Then it came to him—Daedalus! His father must be here somewhere. He brought the name to his lips, but before it could exit he was taken in by the ocean waves and brought into its depths from whence he wouldn't return.</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-escaping-crete-2023-11-23">On "Escaping Crete" | 2023-11-23</h2> <p>Okay, here's part two to yesterday's story. What fascinates me about this part of the story (as it was <a href="https://blog.optional.page/books/metamorphoses/"><span class="inline verdict pos"><span class="sr-only">Thumbs up</span></span>told by Ovid</a>) is the inevitability of it. When Daedalus instructs Icarus he already knows that Icarus will die. But, like Kassandra, he can't do anything about it.</p> <p>A small detail that is sometimes lost is that Daedalus instructs Icarus not only to not fly too high, but also not too low. It is the excess that becomes Icarus undoing, but the myth also warns us not to deprive ourselves either.</p> <p>Another detail I stole from Ovid is the tragedy of the fall. Icarus suddenly is in panic, the wings that but a moment ago were carrying him have forsaken him and he gets taken by the sea before he can even call out for his father.</p> <p>I had to leave out the perspective of the father, who (in Ovid again) notices that his son is missing and frantically looks in all directions hoping to find him somewhere until he notices the feathers floating on the waves.</p> <p>Lastly, what is it that causes Icarus to ignore his father's advice and fly too high? It's not stupidity or rebellion. There has to be an inherent allure in the act. And I believe that Icarus is right in a way. He comes to an early end, but he knew what he was doing. It was a conscious decision and maybe it was even the right one.</p> <figure><blockquote> <p>Never regret thy fall,<br /> O Icarus of the fearless flight<br /> For the greatest tragedy of them all<br /> Is never to feel the burning light.</p> </blockquote><figcaption>Oscar Wilde</figcaption></figure> 2023-11-22T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-22T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/fathers-workshop/ <p>"What are you making?" asked the son. "You'll see," said the father. The son was fascinated by all the tools in his father's workshop. Normally he wasn't allowed in here. His father always made excuses.</p> <p>"You'll hurt yourself," he'd say, "there's sharp edges and heavy tools."</p> <p>If the son persisted and promised to be careful he'd say, "I have an important contraption to build for the king. I can't let myself be distracted by you."</p> <p>"I'll stay out of your way and just watch," the son would say, but the father wouldn't budge. "When you're older."</p> <p>But today the son hadn't needed to plea and beg. "Come," the father had said and left the workshop door open behind him. What was different about today? The son hadn't had a birthday. He was still thirteen. The father had come down hurried after some talk with the king, so it was safe to assume that it was another of his orders.</p> <p>The son walked around the shelves. He would stop every two or three steps and eye the curious tools and materials. Presently, he picked up a shiny rock of a kind he'd never seen before. He adjusted the spectacles his father had crafted him and inspected the rock more closely. "Don't touch that," his father commented while drawing up some plans on a piece of paper.</p> <p>The son put the rock back and picked up a piece that looked like a couple of pencils put together in some zig-zag formation. When he unfolded the first angle all the other angles unfolded with it and the whole piece extended to an incredible length. "Give me that," the father growled, taking the piece and using it to draw a big arced line on his plan.</p> <p>Now the father started actually building something he went around carrying candles and pots, pieces of wood, and bags of something soft. Often the son would be in the way through no fault of his own.</p> <p>The son had had an idea for an invention of his own and started collecting some string, pieces of wood and some tools, a file, a hammer, a saw. He tried to stay out of his father's way while working, but he still earned the occasional annoyed comment and twice his father took the tool he was just using because he needed it himself.</p> <p>But after a couple of hours the two both finished their projects simultaneously. "Look, father, it is an arm extender. You pull this trigger and at the other and these bolts shut and can grasp something for you."</p> <p>He demonstrated with a rolled up piece of paper that he got from the top shelf.</p> <p>"Very good," The expression of the father had softened somewhat, "though your system of string pulleys will have trouble producing enough torque to grasp something heavier."</p> <p>"I had noticed that already. But I have an idea to fix it, maybe I can try tomorrow? What did you make for the king?"</p> <p>"The king? No, these are for us," said the father and presented two sets of wings he'd built from feathers and wax, "Icarus, we have to leave Crete," the father sighed looking at his boy, "We have to leave now."</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-father-s-workshop-2023-11-22">On "Father's Workshop" | 2023-11-22</h2> <p>I had never given this story much thought until coming across it in Ovid's <a href="https://blog.optional.page/books/metamorphoses/"><span class="inline verdict pos"><span class="sr-only">Thumbs up</span></span>Metamorphoses</a>. It's just a short couple of lines, but they left a deep impression on me.</p> <p>The character of Icarus is painted as a young and curious boy that is clumsily in the way of his father Daedalus who is crafting the wings to escape Crete. There's something so innocent about him. I didn't want to write the ending to the story here, because I don't think that I can tell it in a way that would add more than the knowledge a reader should have already. It's also tonally a bit different and I want to be done with writing today.</p> <p>But just writing down the above I am getting interested in completing the story. Maybe tomorrow?</p> <p>Writing today's entry was fun. There's a certain appeal to (re-)interpreting classic myths. They are so full of meaning and I think that there's much that we can still learn from them through reading, yes, but also through working with them, adapting them, playing with them.</p> 2023-11-21T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-21T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-long-way-home/ <p>I take off my backpack and sit down on one of the higher seats, those that are above one of the wheels. I put the backpack up on my lap and catch my breath. I really had to run to catch this bus. But I was lucky. This is the last one tonight. The connection in this rural area is pretty terrible.</p> <p>I look at the window. It's pitch black outside. Instead I see the cute woman reflected that sits a couple rows down. She's in one of the rows facing back, facing me. Absentmindedly I admire her curly bob. Suddenly her gaze shifts and she stares directly at me. I'm stunned, unable to avert my gaze. Her expression changes into something between annoyance and disgust. The shame of having been caught staring frees me to turn away quickly, but I drop my backpack in the process.</p> <p>Embarrassed I bend down to pick it up, but from this high seat I can barely reach it. I can feel the eyes on me and slide down from my seat. Just in that moment the bus drives through a pothole and the bump throws me out of my seat and I crash my face against the hand rail. I wince, but try not to make any noise. Just pass it off. People are staring. I grab my backpack and sit back up.</p> <p>The pain now starts to register. My lower lip and chin ache. I fight back tears. Don't cry in public. I look around me. There's a guy in army uniform behind me giving me judgemental looks. One guy in a baseball cap is smoking a cigarette.</p> <p>I taste blood in my mouth. I swallow it down and search with my tongue for a wound. Though the search proves unsuccessful I again taste blood. I look at my reflection in the window, checking for anything. The blackness of the night makes it difficult to make out details, so instead I fish out my phone from my backpack.</p> <p>I notice that it's a bit wet. I grope around and notice that the bottom of my backpack is very soggy. Damn, the drop must've broken the bottle. At least it's just water. I dry my phone on my pullover. Then I open the selfie camera and check my chin again. Looks okay.</p> <p>"Are you taking a picture of me?" the woman exclaims indignantly.</p> <p>I quickly drop my phone back into my backpack. "No—"</p> <p>"Whatever," she scoffs.</p> <p>I can feel the angry looks around me. How much longer will I have to endure this? I look up at the display for the stop sequence, but it's broken. I know the driver announced some stop, but I didn't really pay attention.</p> <p>I look outside trying to identify any landmarks. Acres and the occasional tree. Not helpful. Maybe I can check on my phone. I decide it's best not to get it out of the backpack again and instead turn on the display in there. It only flashes on briefly, before going black again. I repeatedly hit the power button to no avail. Maybe the water made it short circuit?</p> <p>But I guess the time was 2:40? I'm not sure since I saw it only so briefly. But 2:40 would mean that the next stop could be mine. I hesitate a moment, but then I press the "request stop" button.</p> <p>Shortly after the bus stops and the doors open. I don't recognize the stop. It's probably the next one.</p> <p>But the doors do not close. The bus does not continue on.</p> <p>The driver gets out of his seat and turns to face us passengers.</p> <p>"Someone pressed the stop button. Someone has to get off here."</p> <p>I shrink into my seat. He doesn't know it was me. I'm sure he's just making a joke.</p> <p>But he continues to stand there, unmoving.</p> <p>"I think it was that weird lanky guy over there," the woman says, pointing at me. My heart shatters into a thousand pieces. Out of everything being misgendered hurts the most. I thought that the long hair, the earrings, the slim fitting pants, and the pink backpack would let me pass. I had walked around like this the whole weekend. Nobody had said a thing. But now she showed me that everyone was silently reading me wrong, judging me as something I was not. Or at least tried not to be.</p> <p>"Didn't you hear the driver, bro?"</p> <p>The military dude shoves me from behind.</p> <p>My throat goes tight. Like in a trance I get up and leave the bus. As the doors close behind me I hear the guy in the baseball cap comment "Fucking faggot." The army guy laughs. The bus speeds off.</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-the-long-way-home-2023-11-21">On "The Long Way Home" | 2023-11-21</h2> <p>An amalgamation of my most terrifying nightmares and my worst experiences. I leave it to the reader to speculate on which is which. It really hurt to write, but in a good way, like tearing off a band aid. Maybe this process can dispel the nightmares and help me let go of these painful memories and fears.</p> <p>When I started out with this story I had only a couple plot points mapped out in my mind, but it was shockingly easy to find more and more. The most terrifying place on earth is inside a bus.</p> 2023-11-20T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-20T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/martha/ <p>Dear Jack, <br><br> I hope this letter finds you well. I wanted to write sooner, but things have turned out so much differently than I had planned them. I'm so sorry that I left without telling you my exact plans or where to reach me.</p> <p>When my father the King had ordered me wed to that slimy Prince Mornfield I had to think quick. If I had fled to you he would have suspected—he probably sent some men to you that were supposed to retrieve me?</p> <p>One of the maids had helped me find a different means of escape. She had told me of a bar down by the docks where I could find experts in suspicious dealings—pirates! I had fashioned myself a fake beard out of pig's bristles and successfully got hired for a short mission that would have taken only a couple of months.</p> <p>Jack, you have to understand that I had every intention of coming back to you. But once we were at sea things changed. I noticed how much I enjoyed life on deck. We each had to do tough work, but I quickly started to gain an appreciation. The physical exertion at the fresh air was fulfilling and made me sleep so well, even in the bowels of the shaky ship. I had some great rapport with the other shipmates and there was this reciprocity in the respect we held for each other.</p> <p>I had feared that there would be a lot of violence when we would plunder other ships, but in most cases they willingly gave up their cargo. Partly because it is ensured and partly because of the reputation our ship had. But after one plundering where we had to use some force we were surprised to find that "John" had lost his moustache. It turns out that "he" was actually a young woman named Mary that had fled some marriage!</p> <p>I was relieved that it was her and not me that was discovered, but at the same time I had a lot of pity with her as some of the guys started demanding she walk the plank. But then our Captain Harry stepped up and tore of <em>his</em> moustache and revealed she was also a woman named Harriet.</p> <p>Encouraged by that I also revealed myself and many others followed, until we finally discovered that we were all women!</p> <p>From that day on the mood around the deck lifted even more and we bonded around all our shared experiences that had driven us to seek out adventure at sea! We have extended our campaign and there's talk of many of us not wanting to ever return.</p> <br> Please do not worry about me. <br> <br> Goodbye<br> Martha <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-martha-2023-11-20">On "Martha" | 2023-11-20</h2> <p>I've been keeping a list with some bullet points of inspiration as that's often the hardest thing for me. Today I mashed up two of them, "letter" and "pirate."</p> <p>What I associate most with pirate stories is the element of (mis-)taken identity. Like in the films The Pirate (1948) and The Princess Bride (1987). The Pirates of the Caribbean films are (as I recall) a notable exception to this. The Man In The Iron Mask (1998) also has these vibes though there's no explicit pirate in that story.</p> <p>The second thing that I associate with pirates is queerness. I'm unsure how correct that is but my mind is telling me that a pirate life provided some affordances in the form of freedoms that society under some kings rule did not provide.</p> <p>I don't really care how accurate that is as writing this story has demonstrated to me that this really isn't a setting that I enjoy writing in.</p> 2023-11-19T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-19T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/fenco/ <p>Sina pulled the lever of the Fenco Payroller. The little wheel began spinning. This was the highlight of her day. Seeing the little icons with all the prospective prizes whiz by always got Sina dreaming. Today could be the day that she could win retirement on her very own island! Or a year vacation trip around all the biggest Fenco Cities! Or a fancy dinner at a five-star Fenco Diner. Or some Furniture Credits?</p> <p>The little melody of beeps reached its apex as her prize flashed on screen. A second spin on a random day within the next month. Sina was giddy with delight. The Fenco psychologists really knew how to make the citizen employees happy. These elements of randomness interlocked so elegantly. And one day of work for one go at the Fenco Payroller was more than fair given the quality of some of the things you could get.</p> <p>A Fenco pod pulled up and Sina got in. On the keyboard she selected her home address S1-N4. She still had enough Drink Credits to order a Fencola for the trip home. While the noiseless pod raced through the black tunnels Sina enjoyed some 2040s oldies while sipping on her fizzy refreshment. She knew what a luxury it was to be able to listen to so many songs. A couple years back the Fenco Payroller had landed on a fifty year unlimited song pass. If she listened with other people they of course still had to pay, but in cases like these where she was completely alone she could listen to as many songs from the catalogue as she wanted.</p> <p>Rootin' Toot by The Fencehoppers faded to silence as the pod pulled up in front of her apartment. Sina got out and picked up the basic meal in front of her door as the pod sped off. She had spend her last Food Credits two weeks ago when she'd had celebrated her birthday with a couple of friends. But luckily Fenco didn't let anyone starve. Basic meals—just like transport to and from work, and even the basic apartments—were free for anyone, even those who didn't want to work. Sina shook her head as she thought of the people who didn't work for Fenco. How could one be so ungrateful?</p> <p>She entered her apartment and turned on some music again. Her dashboard flared up and informed her that seven of her co-workers had thanked her for her work today. She tapped all the "thank back" button to keep the streaks going.</p> <p>I'm so blessed, she thought as she unzipped her meal.</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-fenco-2023-11-19">On "Fenco" | 2023-11-19</h2> <p>Yes, this is very cliché. My inspiration were all the YA dystopian stories most of which aren't any better. Maybe I'll try my hands again at a smarter dystopia on one of the remaining days…</p> <p>Inspiration for the mechanics obviously comes from the many <a rel="external" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dark_pattern">Dark patterns</a> used on the internet, specifically social media. Randomized rewards, free samples, an opaque system of multiple different currencies, social reciprocity in combination with streaks, etc.</p> <p>Then there's the classic trope of people not having names, with Sina just being an interpretation of her address (S1N4) and of course one company owning everything.</p> <p>But what was most important to me here was to portray Sina as not only content, but maybe even happy in this system. People addicted to social media tell themselves (and sometimes others) that they actually enjoy it. A minority of gamers is in favour of loot boxes not because they think it's a fair business model, but because they like buying them. People working at "hip" tech firms with bean bags in the office claim they enjoy working with "friends" and like staying late at the office "for the atmosphere".</p> <p>I'm too cynical to believe such happiness to be "real" (whatever that means), but I'm also realist enough to know that all that could get me too.</p> <p>Should we go work at Fenco and be as happy as Sina, or do we need to free Sina? Is doing neither a fair option?</p> <p>Sina "unzipping" the meal just came to me, but I think that's really good. It's so weird.</p> 2023-11-18T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-18T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-cracked-egg/ <p>John had broken the egg and now it was too late. They say there's no use in crying over spilled milk, but this was different. Spilled milk you could clean up and go on with your life, but this egg. . .</p> <p>John had gotten the egg when he had left the bank on Thursday. An old, hunched over woman had come up to him grabbed his hand and had placed the egg inside. She had looked up at him with her glassy eyes and warned him to take care of the egg and not to brake it. Then she had disappeared into the crowd.</p> <p>John had stood there, stunned. He had still been processing what had happened. Then he had looked at the egg in his hand. It had looked like any other brown chicken egg. Suddenly, somebody had bumped into John. The egg had slipped and had begun to fall. John's reflexes had kicked in and he had surprised himself when he caught the egg again, safe and secure.</p> <p>He had chuckled to himself at the absurdity of it all, but he had taken the egg with him. He had placed it in the car's cup holder and had later sat it down on the kitchen counter in a nest of napkins.</p> <p>The next morning though, when he saw the egg still sitting there he had thought how stupid it was to him to have an egg just sitting there. What was he gonna do with it? The old woman had told him to take care of it, but what did she know? He'd just fry this egg for breakfast.</p> <p>But when he had cracked the egg into the pan he was startled to find it empty. The moment felt completely surreal. Something else was off, not just that the egg was empty, something else was missing too. Suddenly he heard a woman behind him "Hello."</p> <p>He turned, but nobody was there. "It's me."</p> <p>He turned again. He knew that voice from somewhere.</p> <p>"I was wondering if after all these years you'd like to meet."</p> <p>Was that Adele playing? He turned off the radio, but the song continued playing. He opened up the cabinets trying to identify the source of the song, but there was nothing there. In his frustration John slammed the cabinets shut again, but he was terrified to find that they didn't make a sound. All he could hear was Adele's singing accompanied by the piano.</p> <p>John tried to speak, and it must have worked, as he felt his vocal chords vibrate in his throat, but he couldn't hear. Finally, the song finished and there was a moment of silence. John clapped his hands, yet couldn't hear anything. Then there was the soft piano again and Adele's "Hello."</p> <p>John screamed, he ran around the apartment banging on the walls and doors. He couldn't hear. Or rather, all he could hear was Adele. He covered his ears with his hands to no avail.</p> <p>He tore open his apartment door and ran out onto the corridor where some of his neighbours were already gathering in confusion and anger. They pointed at him and their lips were moving, but he couldn't hear them.</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-the-cracked-egg-2023-11-18">On "The Cracked Egg" | 2023-11-18</h2> <p>Another instance of that date being a lie. Yesterday was busy, so I actually wrote this story on the 19th.</p> <p>The inspiration for this story came from the latest episode of The Flop House (<a rel="external" href="https://www.flophousepodcast.com/2023/11/episode-409-mafia-mamma-with-hallie-haglund/">#409</a>) where they made some reference to an egg that played music when cracked. It was just one of the many off-hand jokes that don't go anywhere, but the idea tickled me. The second inspiration is that one Black Mirror Christmas episode where a guy has to listen to "I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday" for an eternity.</p> <p>I selected Adele's "Hello" for this story, because I've actually listened to that song on repeat for a couple of weeks, about 2,000 times total, which sums to more than 150 hours. It's a good song.</p> <p>It's a shame that I already had an egg story simply called "Egg". Made me have to come up with another (in my opinion worse) title.</p> 2023-11-17T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-17T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/at-the-cafe/ <p>Madeline added another cube of sugar to her coffee and stirred. She looked into the spinning spiral pattern inside her cup. The sugar cube falling into nothingness. Entropy at work.</p> <p>"Oh, did I tell you? John took me horseback riding the other week."</p> <p>Madeline didn't look up. Why couldn't Barbara quit yapping on for more than 2 minutes? With time Madeline had gotten good at tuning out Barbara's chatter. She picked up the small porcelain milk pot and began pouring it into the still swirling coffee. White lines were pulled into the centre of the vortex. Madeline watched as the black coffee slowly turned lighter and lighter. Now it started overflowing, light brown streaks running down the sides of the teal cup, slowly filling the saucer until finally that too starts to overrun. It seeps into the newspaper underneath.</p> <p>The milk pot is empty. Madeline looks up. Barbara looks at her expectantly and brings forth a "Hm?"</p> <p>"Oh yes, for sure." Madeline replies in a near monotone.</p> <p>"That's what I had told him, but he wouldn't believe me! So when we next saw them. . ."</p> <p>Madeline picked the spoon out of the cup. She used it to push the little apple pieces around on the cake in front of her. Tiny pieces of apple on a tiny piece of cake. Why do people pay for this? She started sorting the crumbles of dough to one side and the pieces of apple to the other. Never mind other people, why was she going to pay for this? She never had had any intention of eating it. She was done sorting the pieces and now started to transfer the crumbles into her cup one by one. And yet she had ordered it.</p> <p>The waitress came over. Madeline had guessed that she couldn't be older than 20.</p> <p>"Everything to your liking?"</p> <p>"Oh, very much so. This raspberry cream tart is delicious."</p> <p>Madeline glanced at the untouched piece on Barbara's plate.</p> <p>"And you?"</p> <p>"Good."</p> <p>The waitress left again.</p> <p>"What a cute little thing," Barbara started again, "I remember my first job as a waitress."</p> <p>I'm sure you do, thought Madeline, tearing pieces of napkin and placing them on her cake. Tell me all about it.</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-at-the-cafe-2023-11-17">On "At The Café" | 2023-11-17</h2> <p>Sometimes that's just how life is. Madeline could be read as anorexic here, but that's not it. She's just apathetic and/or depressed. While writing I was again very conscious of some dialogue not having the speaker made explicit. And also about having Madeline's thoughts not be distinct from narration. I think it works and it's giving me confidence in that style of writing. The vibes of this story are similar to <a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/hello-spring/">Hello Spring</a> and <a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-talent-show/">The Talent Show</a>, but I think this story still adds something new.</p> 2023-11-16T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-16T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/sweet-like-honey/ <blockquote> <p>Pooh Bear awoke bright and early. "Today is a very special day," he said to himself and rolled out of bed. He stepped over to his wardrobe and inspected his shirt collection. "Got to look your best," he chuckled to himself as he picked a red one and pulled it over.<br /> He then stepped into the kitchen where he stopped in front of the rack of honey pots. "That'll make a nice snack for on the way," he said as he took one pot under his arm and immediately dipped his other hand in to start eating.<br /> With both hands occupied he pushed the door open using his butt. He strolled down the path between the trees of Ashdown Forest. It wasn't long until he met Tigger who came down jumping on his tail.<br /> "Hey Pooh, do you want to go down to the lake and throw rocks into the lake?"<br /> "Oh, no thank you. Maybe next time. But can you tell me how I look?"<br /> "That's okay. What do you mean how you look? You're a yellow bear with a red shirt."<br /> "Hm, thank you, Tigger. Goodbye."<br /> Winnie-the-Pooh set off, annoyed at how simple his friend sometimes was. He knew what he looked like. He wanted to know whether he looked good, whether he looked sexy.<br /> It wasn't long until he arrived at Piglet's house.<br /> "Oh, Pooh, you look so sweet like honey today. Let's get you out of that shirt."<br /> "My little Piglet, let me at least close the door behind me," he said, but as he closed it Piglet already started taking off his shirt and rubbing his strong, muscular chest.<br /> "You really know how to touch me— Oh!" Pooh gasped as Piglet grabbed his bearhood.<br /> "Shush, I'll take the lead from here," Piglet whispered.</p> </blockquote> <p>Suddenly the door behind Alice opened. It was Christopher. "Whatcha writing? One of your smutty fanfics again?" He bent over her shoulder and mumbled "taking off his shirt . . . grabbed his bearhood!? Alice, why does every single one of your fanfictions always need to revolve around the characters fucking? Can't you just write something nice? Them going on adventures or some shit?"</p> <p>"It's just what I like to write. And the people on AO3 seem to like it as well. They are very nice and encouraging. And, like, be honest: Don't you think it's kinda hot?"</p> <p>Christopher blushed. "Winnie-the-Pooh and fricking Piglet getting it on!?"</p> <p>"Honest!" Alice insisted.</p> <p>"I mean, I guess it's kinda hot."</p> <p>"Getting you in the mood 'kinda hot'?"</p> <p>"Maybe," Christopher grinned.</p> <p>Alice started pulling up his shirt. "Well, Mr. Columbus. Do you want to explore my wonderland?"</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-sweet-like-honey-2023-11-16">On "Sweet Like Honey" | 2023-11-16</h2> <p>Obviously I'm just having a bit of fun here. Again with the meta levels like <a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/tea-party/">Tea Party</a> and the dumb fanfiction like <a href="https://blog.optional.page/creative/a-metamorphosis/">A Metamorphosis</a>. It's a bit of a cliché that fanfiction is always about <a rel="external" href="https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Shipping">shipping</a> characters, just like spending a little too much time on the internet will associate the terms "fan art" and "pregnant Sonic" in even the healthiest of brains.</p> <p>I personally am not part of the fanfic community. Not as a writer, but neither as a reader. The majority of fanfic is accessible only online on platforms like <a rel="external" href="https://archiveofourown.org/">AO3 ("Archive of our own")</a>. I mostly like reading print books and I sometimes read on my Kindle. Maybe I should investigate some way to easily load some things on there, because everything else about the fanfic community is awesome.</p> <p>Fanfiction gets written in a way that's very similar to the earliest novels. It's mostly published serially, meaning one chapter every week, month, or whenever the author finishes it. And then the readers will discuss the story and give suggestions where the story might go next. Popular stories will have beta-readers, which are people that will get the first version of a chapter and submit feedback before it is released to the public.</p> <p>This means that many fanfics are not the work of just one author, but a group of people that give input on the story.</p> <p>The second cool thing is that it's all done for the love of it. As fanfiction is often based on copyrighted characters and/or settings it's legally difficult to commercialize. That a group of online users is responsible for the end product just adds to this difficulty.</p> <p>Lastly, the community consists of a very high percentage of marginalized people. Women and queer people, for example, are motivated to write queer or gender-swapped versions of popular stories to finally see themselves represented or to exert control, even if only over fictional worlds (<a rel="external" href="https://youtu.be/TJLitUFll4s">The same desire also draws us to TTRPGs</a>).</p> <p>These queer stories then draw other marginalized people in as readers and you've got a community.</p> <p>I hope I could provide some deeper context on the relationship of fanfic and "smutty" stories. I hope I also got across some of my enthusiasm about the community that is really doing something special.</p> <p>I know that Christopher Columbus could be confused with Christopher Robin in the second part of my story when I just call him by his first name. I couldn't come up with a better character to switch him out with. Deal with it. Also, "bearhood" is objectively really funny.</p> 2023-11-15T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-15T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-talent-show/ <p>Tina feels her hands getting sweaty. She is standing behind Keith who now enters onto the stage with his puppet. The audience cheers him on loudly. It must be 200 people out there. Tina's stomach turns at that thought.</p> <p>Mr. Whitten had pressured her into signing up for the talent show. Tina had said no, Mr. Whitten had said yes, she had said yes. And now here she is. Next in line. With just her juggling balls. Tina is sweating so much that she drops one of them.</p> <p>As she quickly bows down to pick it back up she feels a sense of vertigo come over her. She feels disoriented and nauseous. "You're up next." As if she doesn't know that already. "Are you alright? You look a bit pale."</p> <p>Tina feels the sandwiches coming back up. She gulps them back down again before they can reach her mouth, but she can feel that this wasn't the last of them.</p> <p>"Here, do you need a bin?" The stagehand passes her a large garbage bin.</p> <p>"No, thanks I'm—" That's as far as Tina gets before throwing up.</p> <p>"Oh dear, food poisoning?"</p> <p>"Uh-huh," she nods, knowing full well that it's just her nerves. She spits into the bin again. When she lifts her head out of it she hears the moderator on stage call her name and the audience start clapping.</p> <p>"I can't. I can't go out there!" she begs.</p> <p>The moderator looks over expectantly. The stagehand motions widely while mouthing something. When the moderator understands they start stalling for time.</p> <p>"Take a sip." The stagehand offers Tina a bottle of water. "Are you sure you can't go out there?" he asks as she takes a few gulps.</p> <p>"No, I really can't."</p> <p>The stage hand motions to the moderator again who announces the next act. Tina sits down on a chair.</p> <p>"Maybe you should get some fresh air?"</p> <p>Tina nods and gets up. She leaves through the back. Standing outside she takes a deep breath.</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-the-talent-show-2023-11-15">On "The Talent Show" | 2023-11-15</h2> <p>I'm finding it harder and harder to come up with interesting conceits. I knew that I'd run out of ideas eventually and I'm surprised I've made it this far. Part of it is also the daily writing. Life is a bit stressful and I'm not setting aside the time needed to get into a writing mood. Often it's late at night and I just want to get something out before going to bed.</p> <p>I still think it's better to push through and write some less interesting stuff rather than to lose track. I hope that this is just a rut that I can push through and find some new inspiration at the other side of.</p> <p>This story I tried a present tense narration. I thought that it'd be important to have the protagonist stressed to justify the immediacy of the narration. Stage fright isn't something that I've ever experienced to such a bad degree so it was difficult to get in that headspace.</p> <p>I've set myself the rough goal of 350+ words for this project and that made yesterday and today tough. It feels like the basic premise does not justify such elaboration. This story is less than 350 words and still could have stayed a bit shorter or it would need a second idea to carry it.</p> 2023-11-14T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-14T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/egg/ <p>Commander Chev set down the egg on the scanner. She initiated the scanner's DNA sequencing procedure and left the lab, heading to the medical showers. She turned around a couple of times to glance at the egg as the scanner was spinning around it until the lab door closed, cutting her line of sight. She entered the shower and washed the sludge and debris off her suit. After 30 seconds the computer chimed and she turned off the shower. The water running down the drain reminded her of some runny egg white. A couple seconds later a chime broke Chev out of her thoughts. She had already been dried.</p> <p>Chev stepped out of the shower and went a couple of steps back towards the lab. She reminded herself of the credits she could get if this was a good egg and turned around. She unscrewed her helmet and took off her suit.</p> <p>She strolled up to the cockpit and let herself fall down into her chair. She thought about how funny it was that hundreds of years ago this exact design had been pioneered by companies trying to make gaming chairs. Back then they were supposed to look futuristic and somehow they had really gotten it right.</p> <p>Chev moved the engine from hover into flight mode. She had gotten from this rotten planet what she wanted—or rather, what her client wanted—so there was no point in spending anymore time in its gravitational pull.</p> <p>As the engine changed its mode of operation the ship began humming. When Chev had bought this piece of junk seventeen years back the dodgy seller had told her it was the sound of electricity travelling through the wires, but through some investigating Chev had found out that it was merely the metal of the hull bending under the stress.</p> <p>As the ship started accelerating the scanners result flashed up on the bottom left screen. Chev maximized the results onto the main screen.</p> <blockquote> <p>50g, 97% edible.</p> </blockquote> <p>That's a good one, Chev thought to herself. Her mouth started watering at the thought of the egg that was sitting just down the hall. No. She had to sell it. An egg of such quality would surely bring in about 12.000 credits. 17.000 even on the black market. 17k, for such a delicious egg. Chev closed her eyes as she pictured the cold egg white running down her throat while the yolk sat on her tongue, slowly unfolding its flavour. Chev snapped back. 17k, that would be enough to get a new ship. Her very own Raptor. Just don't think about that delicious egg until you get to a trading post.</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-egg-2023-11-14">On "Egg" | 2023-11-14</h2> <p>I wanted to write something sci-fi. I played with the idea of some laser pistol battle, but I feel like I've done a lot of violence in the recent stories already. Limiting myself to one character was the obvious choice then.</p> <p>Originally I did not have Chev's obsession with the egg as a through-line. She had gotten the egg, put it on the scanner and then it would only be mentioned again in the end with the scan results. In my head it was ambiguous what kind of egg it might be.</p> <p>But when I had to put in some scan results I started out with "97% edible" and thought that wasn't enough of a result so I also added the weight. From that I spun out into Chev maybe also wanting to eat the egg, but to really sell that idea I had to seed it earlier as well.</p> <p>I get the feeling that all my stories have some humorous (or at least silly) undertones, but with writing every day it's tough to find the time to think about this kind of stuff more deeply. I'll have to make some time after I'm done with the month to reflect on what I can take away from it all.</p> 2023-11-13T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-13T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/a-dance-with-the-prince/ <p>Elle couldn't believe her luck. Here she was dancing with the most dashing prince. They were alone in his grand ballroom. There wasn't even a band, the instruments magically played themselves.</p> <p>Earlier this week she had gotten a letter from the prince inviting her up to his castle. At first she had thought that her step-sisters were having a laugh at her expense, but the seal turned out to be genuine. The prince hadn't left his castle for five years now and Elle had wondered how she came to the honour of being invited.</p> <p>Another problem had been choosing what to wear. Her step-mother did not pay her a wage for the chores she did around the house nor was she getting an allowance. When she had asked her sisters for clothes they said: "Here's something for you." and had thrown rags into the mud.</p> <p>But on the evening of the visit the prince's butler arrived at her house and had given her a yellow dress. She had been surprised to find it fit her perfectly, as if it had been tailormade for her.</p> <p>When they had arrived in the castle's entrance hall and the butler called for the prince Elle began to worry. Nobody in the village had seen the prince these past five years. Maybe he had been disfigured in a fencing accident? Or simply not getting enough sun had turned him pale and week? But when the prince appeared at the top of the grand staircase all worries immediately had faded.</p> <p>He was muscular and wore a dark blue suit with gold cufflinks. He had a handsome face with a clean shaven, angular jaw. He had brown hair with some light curls. His blue eyes immediately enchanted her. She was in love.</p> <p>They had had a few drinks and then he had asked her to dance. And that's what they had been doing for the past hours. She was amazed by the prince's endurance as she could feel her own legs aching and her lungs were begging her to take a break as well, but being held in his arms she felt home and thus willed her muscles to endure another dance, and another.</p> <p>But then the clock started striking.</p> <p>"Is it midnight already?!"</p> <p>"What is it to you? You are a prince."</p> <p>"No, you don't understand! Go, leave!"</p> <p>He turned away and ran off to some door.</p> <p>"Will I see you again?" she called after him.</p> <p>He did not respond and disappeared behind the door.</p> <p>Elle decided that he had probably just not heard her question and decided to follow after him. When she reached the door she heard strained moans and coughing on the other side. She carefully opened the door just a tiny bit to peer in.</p> <p>Elle was shocked at the ghastly sight she beheld and her hands immediately went to cover her mouth to stop her from gasping. She could not make out any details as the only light was the full moon shining out through the opposite window. But she saw the black silhouette of the prince hunched over, holding his stomach and vomiting up some dark liquid.</p> <p>Then something on his back began to move. Or was it his back that was moving? Lumps grew across his spine. Then they consolidated into spikes that violently shot out from his back and ripped his jacket.</p> <p>All this had been accompanied by pained cries and belching, but the sound of these now started to change into a terrifying shriek. And when the body shifted position against the moon Elle could understand why. The head had become extended, the neck had widened and the mouth and nose area was no protruding in a point, the eyes had fallen back and the ears had completely vanished. The prince had transformed into some kind of reptilian monstrosity.</p> <p>Elle couldn't believe what was happening. She stumbled backwards in fear and tripped. She still hadn't mastered high heels.</p> <p>The shrieking from the other room stopped. Elle rushed to get back on her feet, but in her terror it took her three attempts. By the time she got up the. . . creature was standing in the door, just a couple paces away from her.</p> <p>Its nostrils widened and narrowed in its breathing. It began slowly circling Elle. She was completely frozen and was only able to slowly turn her head to follow the creature.</p> <p>Suddenly, it shot forward and its teeth tore into her neck.</p> <span id="continue-reading"></span><h2 id="on-a-dance-with-the-prince-2023-11-13">On "A Dance With The Prince" | 2023-11-13</h2> <p>I'm currently reading a gothic novel that fetishizes male physique in a weird way. The protagonist keeps gushing about muscles, raw-ness and stuff like that which I channelled in the first description of the prince. So that's my impression of what hetero women find hot, but I'm a bit puzzled.</p> <p>Another thing I tried was to have dialogue without explicitly calling out who says what. That's something I've been struggling with in my past stories.</p> <p>Overall, I wanted to write something in the fairy tale genre. I might have misremembered Beauty and the Beast.</p> 2023-11-12T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-12T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/a-metamorphosis/ <p>Only the latest 20 posts have full text in this RSS Feed. Please visit the site to read this post.</p> 2023-11-11T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-11T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-abandoned-house/ <p>Only the latest 20 posts have full text in this RSS Feed. Please visit the site to read this post.</p> 2023-11-10T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-10T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/hello-spring/ <p>Only the latest 20 posts have full text in this RSS Feed. Please visit the site to read this post.</p> 2023-11-09T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-09T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-dead-lord/ <p>Only the latest 20 posts have full text in this RSS Feed. Please visit the site to read this post.</p> 2023-11-08T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-08T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-buddy-programme/ <p>Only the latest 20 posts have full text in this RSS Feed. Please visit the site to read this post.</p> 2023-11-07T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-07T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/tea-party/ <p>Only the latest 20 posts have full text in this RSS Feed. Please visit the site to read this post.</p> 2023-11-06T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-06T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/mike/ <p>Only the latest 20 posts have full text in this RSS Feed. Please visit the site to read this post.</p> 2023-11-05T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-05T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-woodcarver/ <p>Only the latest 20 posts have full text in this RSS Feed. Please visit the site to read this post.</p> 2023-11-04T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-04T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/the-woodcarvers-daughter/ <p>Only the latest 20 posts have full text in this RSS Feed. Please visit the site to read this post.</p> 2023-11-03T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-03T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/respite/ <p>Only the latest 20 posts have full text in this RSS Feed. Please visit the site to read this post.</p> 2023-11-02T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-02T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/bean-speech/ <p>Only the latest 20 posts have full text in this RSS Feed. Please visit the site to read this post.</p> 2023-11-01T00:00:00+00:00 2023-11-01T00:00:00+00:00 Optional https://blog.optional.page/creative/clara/ <p>Only the latest 20 posts have full text in this RSS Feed. Please visit the site to read this post.</p>